November 11th, 1997

I lifted my hand once again, gently holding the brush, and letting it glide across the canvas before me. The ringing of an old 50s Playlist that's been long forgotten replayed constantly in my head, motivating me to paint more. But even with this motivation, I set my brush down and looked at my creation.

On the canvas sat a short woman sitting in a bathtub in a blue bathroom, with royal blue towels hanging from a rack next to her. Her blonde hair was put up into a messy bun, covering her eyes. I was never one for painting eyes. Deciding it was finished, I gently took it off the easel and set it against the wall on the floor, along with multiple other paintings that consisted of more women, mountains, and fruit. The record on which my music was playing had already come to a halt, so I walked over to the sink, washed the brushes, turned off the lights and shut the door to the art room.

From the window at the end of the hallway, the yellow light of the sunset greeted the walls of the house, and as I walked to the kitchen at the other end of the hallway, the floorboards did a faint creak, that gradually had gotten louder as the house's age progressed.

Marcus should be home soon, I thought. And almost as quickly as the thought came, Marcus walked through the door, but instead of his regular greeting where he looked at her and smiled, thankful to be home, he stared at the ground, and stormed around the kitchen, throwing his things onto the table.

"I need to go lie down for a bit, I have this terrible headache...", was all he said, before storming down the hall, across the art room, and into our bedroom. It all happened so quickly that I just kind of stood there. I had seen him upset, but not like that. He would feel better after dinner, so I decided to take out some ingredients to make a casserole, and turned on the news.

Mixing up the ingredients and boiling some noodles to put in it, I put some celery on a cutting board, then slicing small bits, just as the cameras had turned to what looked like a pretty nasty car crash on the highway nearby. The car was jammed into the cement wall on the side, completely crushed.

"Its been 20 minutes since the incident, and police say they can finally identify the body. The driver of the car seems to be 31-year old Marcus Williams, who died from the impact of the cement hitting the windshield and the back of the car colliding, crushing his head." 

My left hand all of a sudden jerk, and the knife in my right came down on my finger, missing the celery, and giving me a nasty cut. I screamed and backed away, holding my hand, but not looking at my finger. Instead, my eyes were drawn to the tv screen, and a few words stood out the most...

Marcus Williams...20 minutes...died...

That just isn't possible, a faint voice in my head claimed. Marcus had come home less than 10 minutes ago. He couldn't have been dead. Soon, a loud knocking came at the door, along with deep shouting.

"Its the police! Open the door!"

Without hesitation, my hand was already on the doorknob, shakily turning it and opening the door slightly, only to have two officers come through the door. One was tall, possibly 6''4, with a stubble beard. The other officer was rather short and chunky, with a thick mustache laying above his lip.

"Good Afternoon, Miss. We came to give you some unfortunate news-" the police officer began, but a rush of anger ran through me and I quickly cut him off.

"I don't know what's going on the news, or whoever got into that car crash, but I can tell you right now that my husband is not dead", I started, and I could see the annoyance on the little one's face. "Because he came home, about 10 minutes ago".

This all of a sudden got their attention. They exchanged concerned glances at each other, and then the tall officer bent down, whispered a few words, then spoke to me.

"We would appreciate it if you came with us to the station miss, where we can ask you a few questions. Officer Dalley here will take a quick look around your home".

Before I could argue, the tall police officer escorted me out of my own home, which seemed ridiculous, and led me to the police cruiser, and we drove off to the station.

---

"So you're one hundred percent sure that the man that walked into your house was your husband?"

I fiddled with the edge of my sweater, my fingers being bothered by the emptiness of the room. The chair I was sitting in was white, and very old. It was hard sitting in, and everything about the room made me uncomfortable.

"Yes, I can swear it, now will you please tell me why you're asking these ridiculous questions in the first place? I already told you that it was him, and you had the wrong person."

"The reason why I find your story so unbelievable," the policeman began, "is because my buddy, officer Dalley, finished his inspection in your house. He didn't find anyone there".

I didn't know how to respond, so I simply just stared at the floor, my mind going numb. Who the hell was it that was in my house?

"Since there isn't an intruder in your house, we can send you home, and we guarantee you will be safe. We believe that you simply saw what was happening on the news, and your mind was in denial, so you conjured him up..."

I still could barely hear what he was saying, and eventually, while he ranted on about how I'll be getting therapy and treatment and that grief is always hard, my head drowned him out completely. A part of me wasn't sure if I wanted to go home. Something about the whole event was unnerving.

After a while, the faint humming of his voice ended, and he drove me home. I was given the number of the therapist I would be seeing for the next year or so, but I didn't bother to look at his name printed neatly on the card.

I would say that everything felt weird, and those weird things happened, but they didn't. I did my nightly routine, cleaning up the kitchen, taking a shower, brushing my teeth, hair, getting on baggy pajamas and getting in bed. Of course this time falling asleep felt as if it took years of staring up at the blank ceiling, but eventually, I drifted off.

No, nothing weird happened when I went to sleep. Afterward, was a different story.

My vision was blurred as my eyelids lifted, the familiar blank ceiling greeting them. I groaned, my neck sore from the almost rock-hard pillow I've had for the past few years. And soon, the light from the moon was shining through the window, which revealed a dark figure standing in the bathroom.

I blinked a few times to see better, and sure enough, it looked as if a man was standing in front of the sink, staring at himself in the mirror. Everything about him was dark, almost like a shadow, and at that exact moment, the most unnerving piece of the event had finally come to my mind

How could I have conjured him up from seeing the news, if I saw him before I even turned the television on?

I must have said this out loud, at least a faint whisper because right after I said it, his head turned from the mirror to look at me.